From the Late September 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
The North Woods Call has ceased publication—at least temporarily—due to family and medical issues that demand greater attention and freedom from unforgiving deadlines.
Regular production of the newspaper will stop indefinitely after this issue and active subscribers will receive pro-rated refunds for the unused portions of their subscriptions (See related story below).
“It is with deep regret that we make this announcement,” said Call Editor and Publisher Mike VanBuren. “This is not something we would choose to do under normal circumstances, but life has thrown us some unexpected curve balls during the past year and we feel that we have little choice in the matter.” (For more information about this decision and the reasons behind it, please see the column blog post immediately below this article).
“We apologize to those loyal subscribers who have enthusiastically stuck by us since we resurrected the paper following the death of former Publisher Glen Sheppard,” VanBuren said. “We greatly appreciate your support, as well as that of the many new subscribers who have joined us during the past two years.”
Some of these individuals have purchased first-time subscriptions, or renewed old ones, in just the past few weeks, VanBuren said, and “it’s awkward to pull the plug on them so quickly.”
“But we trust that readers will understand our decision to do this in the face of the personal challenges that we are now facing,” he said.
VanBuren said he hopes The Call will return in the not-too-distant future and be able to do a more thorough and focused job of covering conservation issues in Michigan and beyond. If so, past subscribers will be notified when the publication again becomes available, he said.
In the meantime, a comprehensive history of the newspaper and its role in Michigan conservation journalism is in the works.
“Despite the continuing economic difficulties facing newspapers today, we still believe there is a niche for The North Woods Call,” VanBuren said. “and we’d like to have a role in that, if possible. Unfortunately, we don’t have a partner who can keep things going for us during this forced sabbatical.”
Whoever ultimately carries the North Woods Call tradition forward, it’s clear that he or she will need to better accommodate the needs of modern news consumers and more aggressively adapt to changing communication technologies, VanBuren said.
And returning the base of operations to the north woods would be helpful, he said.
Glen and Mary Lou Sheppard published The Call from the Charlevoix area for more than four decades after purchasing it from founder Marguerite Gahagan in 1969. Gahagan had operated the newspaper from the Johannesburg and Roscommon areas for 16 years prior to that.
Glen Sheppard died Jan. 5, 2011, and VanBuren bought the defunct newspaper later that year from Shep’s widow, who had mothballed it after her husband’s death. Publication began anew in September 2012 after an 18-month absence.
Since then, VanBuren has tried to create what he calls “a conservation community,” or a “public square,” where citizens interested in the conservation of natural resources could come together to learn about and discuss related issues of the day.
The overall goal has been to serve as a trustworthy news source for people who love nature and the north woods, VanBuren said.
“Essentially, we have wanted to be a practical journal of human ecology that chronicles our ongoing relationship to the natural world,” he said.
Sometimes this has meant exposing readers to alternative viewpoints in an effort to stimulate thought and jump-start discussion, according to VanBuren.
“We’re interested in the truth about the relationship between people and the earth,” he said, “and have tried to find it in a politically distorted world that often prefers deception to reality. It’s clear from the reactions of readers that some folks are comfortable with this and some are not.”
Still, we need dissenting voices and independent thinking if we are going to find viable solutions to our problems, VanBuren said.
“We can’t merely push prefabricated agendas and demand that others validate what we already believe,” he said.
Subscription refunds to be given
Current subscribers to The North Woods Call will soon receive pro-rated refunds for the unused portions of their subscriptions.
The individual refunds will be figured based on the newspaper’s regular production schedule—twice monthly (except one issue each in January, April, July and October).
Please note that several electronic and print subscriptions are expiring in early October, before the next scheduled edition would have been produced. Obviously, in those cases, refunds won’t be required.
“Those who are due refunds are asked to be patient, allowing us a few weeks to calculate what is owed and get checks in the mail. Questions may be directed to editor@mynorthwoodscall.com.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
The closing of a door
By Mike VanBuren
From the Late September 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
Dreams die hard.
Such is the case for our grand experiment in publishing The North Woods Call.
Owning the publication has been a dream of mine since I was a boy—one that serendipitously came to pass a few years ago, following the death of longtime publisher Glen Sheppard.
I figured we could make a go of it and I’m pleased with our progress over the past 24 months. Yet, that’s a rather short run if you consider The Call’s 61-plus year legacy.
A couple more years and some additional financial resources would likely boost our chances for success.
If only we could keep at it.
But sometimes the master of the universe has other plans.
The dream began to fade a bit last year when a medical scare put me in the hospital for a couple of days—staring at my own mortality. But that was minor compared to what happened next.
My mother’s unexpected illness and subsequent death last December changed a lot of things about our world and forced our family to pay greater attention to numerous things we would rather not confront. Now my wife’s life-threatening cancer struggle has further driven us to re-examine priorities and time commitments.
Like it or not, I must—for the forseeable future—expand my role as caregiver, and tend to myriad other personal and family obligations that have come my way.
This is not to complain. There are still many blessings in our lives for which I am thankful. But circumstances dictate that I free up some time and sidestep the relentless deadlines that come with owning and operating a small newspaper.
It’s a stab in the heart on numerous levels, but something that has to be done.
It could be that the glory days of print publishing were already long past by the time we purchased The North Woods Call in 2012 and set about trying to resurrect it. The Internet and associated information revolution—not to mention the rapidly changing habits and preferences of information consumers—have already kicked many once-proud publications in the teeth and forced some of them out-of-business.
While we still believe there is a niche for a specialty publication like The North Woods Call, we have nevertheless witnessed declining readership trends, and the disturbing tendency of citizens and public servants to turn away from voices that cry in the wilderness, but don’t necessarily reflect the prevailing “wisdom” of the chattering crowd.
Still, it’s important that these voices be heard and we hope this newspaper can—in the near future—continue to be one that helps inject truth and sanity back into the civic debate.
Until further notice, however, we’ll be out to pasture with other retired race horses—still writing and working on special projects, I expect, but looking over the proverbial fence just the same.
When I first approached the late Mary Lou Sheppard about buying The Call after Shep’s untimely death, she looked at me incredulously.
“Why would you want to take on all that work?” she asked.
I guess because it’s good work, I told her, and something that can keep me occupied and make a difference.
Today, I find myself pulled toward more ominous activities that also promise to keep me occupied and make a difference. I don’t know where this journey will lead, but it’s a road I must follow.
Such is the fate of dreamers, I suppose, particularly those whose fantasies aren’t fulfilled until later in life.
I trust that those of you who love The North Woods Call as much as I do will understand the painful urgency of this decision.
From the Late September 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
Dreams die hard.
Such is the case for our grand experiment in publishing The North Woods Call.
Owning the publication has been a dream of mine since I was a boy—one that serendipitously came to pass a few years ago, following the death of longtime publisher Glen Sheppard.
I figured we could make a go of it and I’m pleased with our progress over the past 24 months. Yet, that’s a rather short run if you consider The Call’s 61-plus year legacy.
A couple more years and some additional financial resources would likely boost our chances for success.
If only we could keep at it.
But sometimes the master of the universe has other plans.
The dream began to fade a bit last year when a medical scare put me in the hospital for a couple of days—staring at my own mortality. But that was minor compared to what happened next.
My mother’s unexpected illness and subsequent death last December changed a lot of things about our world and forced our family to pay greater attention to numerous things we would rather not confront. Now my wife’s life-threatening cancer struggle has further driven us to re-examine priorities and time commitments.
Like it or not, I must—for the forseeable future—expand my role as caregiver, and tend to myriad other personal and family obligations that have come my way.
This is not to complain. There are still many blessings in our lives for which I am thankful. But circumstances dictate that I free up some time and sidestep the relentless deadlines that come with owning and operating a small newspaper.
It’s a stab in the heart on numerous levels, but something that has to be done.
It could be that the glory days of print publishing were already long past by the time we purchased The North Woods Call in 2012 and set about trying to resurrect it. The Internet and associated information revolution—not to mention the rapidly changing habits and preferences of information consumers—have already kicked many once-proud publications in the teeth and forced some of them out-of-business.
While we still believe there is a niche for a specialty publication like The North Woods Call, we have nevertheless witnessed declining readership trends, and the disturbing tendency of citizens and public servants to turn away from voices that cry in the wilderness, but don’t necessarily reflect the prevailing “wisdom” of the chattering crowd.
Still, it’s important that these voices be heard and we hope this newspaper can—in the near future—continue to be one that helps inject truth and sanity back into the civic debate.
Until further notice, however, we’ll be out to pasture with other retired race horses—still writing and working on special projects, I expect, but looking over the proverbial fence just the same.
When I first approached the late Mary Lou Sheppard about buying The Call after Shep’s untimely death, she looked at me incredulously.
“Why would you want to take on all that work?” she asked.
I guess because it’s good work, I told her, and something that can keep me occupied and make a difference.
Today, I find myself pulled toward more ominous activities that also promise to keep me occupied and make a difference. I don’t know where this journey will lead, but it’s a road I must follow.
Such is the fate of dreamers, I suppose, particularly those whose fantasies aren’t fulfilled until later in life.
I trust that those of you who love The North Woods Call as much as I do will understand the painful urgency of this decision.
Being still: Appreciating the sounds of silence
By Mike VanBuren
From the Early September 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
One of the things I most enjoy about trips into the north woods are the various opportunities they offer for relative silence.
Not complete silence, of course. There are always renegade sounds wafting through the trees—birds singing, streams gurgling, leaves rustling, an occasional airplane passing overhead and other more menacing auditory distractions.
But any kind of silence is better than none at all.
Henry David Thoreau said that silence is “the universal refuge—the sequel to all dull discourses and all foolish acts.”
“Nowadays, most men lead lives of noisy desperation,” added James Thurber in a take-off on one of Thoreau’s most famous quotes.
That’s for sure.
As we’ve mentioned on this page before, the world is becoming an increasingly noisy place. And not just due to the high decibel levels caused by machinery and stereophonic speakers. We’re suffering from a glut of high-tech communication gadgets and a general overload of information—both useful and useless—from a growing variety of sources.
I suppose we contribute our fair share to this overload with the news and editorials we publish in The North Woods Call. But that’s minor compared to the amount of tripe that spews from smart phones, social networking sites and the mouths of politicians.
A few years ago—before I shut myself in my home office and began writing this newspaper—I had real-world jobs where employee meetings were all too often ruled by individuals intent on sucking the air out of the room and dominating the conversation. Psychologists say that these extroverts have a need to talk. It energizes them and helps them process their thoughts.
The trouble is, they don’t seem to learn much of value when they’re talking all the time.
Most of my former colleagues would probably say that I don’t have that problem. In fact, they have sometimes complained that I don’t say enough. Kind of like “Silent” Calvin Coolidge, I suppose, without the bully pulpit.
I plead guilty as charged.
The truth is, I don’t really like to hear myself talk and my spirit gets weary if I have to listen to others drone on. Instead, I typically process my thoughts by silent contemplation—and energize myself by actually doing what needs to be done.
Silence is golden, they say, and I concur.
There are, of course, numerous benefits to being still. Among other things, it promotes inner peace, teaches us to listen, helps us communicate on a deeper level, encourages self-discovery, gives us rest, boosts creativity, enhances mental clarity and—most importantly—allows us to hear the voice of God.
“In the attitude of silence, the soul finds the path in a clearer light,” said Mahatma Ghandi, “and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.”
“Nothing in creation is so like God as silence,” agreed Meister Eckhart.
I used to camp on occasion in the Sand Lakes Quiet Area near Traverse City and on North Manitou Island in Lake Michigan. At these and similar locations, I greatly appreciated the freedom from chance encounters with motorized vehicles.
Too much random racket supercharges my nerves, and leaves me drained and irritable.
Back in the 1990s, when I was attending the Colorado Outward Bound School near Leadville with a group of Kellogg National Fellows, the nighttime snoring ritual in the men’s bunkhouse sounded a bit like time trials at a local drag strip. It eventually drove me from the building, and forced me to move my bedroll outside and spread it out under the stars in a stand of tall pines.
I wasn’t being anti-social—just searching for quiet meditation and peaceful sleep.
One of the final exercises in the week-long Outward Bound experience involved several hours of solo time in a mountain forest. We were told to sit silently, observe nature and write letters to ourselves that would be opened a year after we returned home.
“Be still and know that I am God,” the holy scriptures say. That’s good advice, but tough to do in today’s world.
It has been said that the northern Arctic region expresses the sum of all wisdom—silence.
But I wonder about that, since modernity has invaded all areas.
A few years ago, when I visited the rural villages of Kotzebue and Noorvik in northwest Alaska—several hundred air miles from the urban center of Anchorage—my senses were assaulted by numerous all-terrain vehicles roaring through the streets and across the landscape.
It seems that wherever man goes, he carries the din of human activity with him.
“We need to find God,” Mother Teresa said, “and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature—trees, flowers, grass—grows in silence. See the stars, the moon and the sun—how they move in silence. We need silence to be able to touch souls.”
From the Early September 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
One of the things I most enjoy about trips into the north woods are the various opportunities they offer for relative silence.
Not complete silence, of course. There are always renegade sounds wafting through the trees—birds singing, streams gurgling, leaves rustling, an occasional airplane passing overhead and other more menacing auditory distractions.
But any kind of silence is better than none at all.
Henry David Thoreau said that silence is “the universal refuge—the sequel to all dull discourses and all foolish acts.”
“Nowadays, most men lead lives of noisy desperation,” added James Thurber in a take-off on one of Thoreau’s most famous quotes.
That’s for sure.
As we’ve mentioned on this page before, the world is becoming an increasingly noisy place. And not just due to the high decibel levels caused by machinery and stereophonic speakers. We’re suffering from a glut of high-tech communication gadgets and a general overload of information—both useful and useless—from a growing variety of sources.
I suppose we contribute our fair share to this overload with the news and editorials we publish in The North Woods Call. But that’s minor compared to the amount of tripe that spews from smart phones, social networking sites and the mouths of politicians.
A few years ago—before I shut myself in my home office and began writing this newspaper—I had real-world jobs where employee meetings were all too often ruled by individuals intent on sucking the air out of the room and dominating the conversation. Psychologists say that these extroverts have a need to talk. It energizes them and helps them process their thoughts.
The trouble is, they don’t seem to learn much of value when they’re talking all the time.
Most of my former colleagues would probably say that I don’t have that problem. In fact, they have sometimes complained that I don’t say enough. Kind of like “Silent” Calvin Coolidge, I suppose, without the bully pulpit.
I plead guilty as charged.
The truth is, I don’t really like to hear myself talk and my spirit gets weary if I have to listen to others drone on. Instead, I typically process my thoughts by silent contemplation—and energize myself by actually doing what needs to be done.
Silence is golden, they say, and I concur.
There are, of course, numerous benefits to being still. Among other things, it promotes inner peace, teaches us to listen, helps us communicate on a deeper level, encourages self-discovery, gives us rest, boosts creativity, enhances mental clarity and—most importantly—allows us to hear the voice of God.
“In the attitude of silence, the soul finds the path in a clearer light,” said Mahatma Ghandi, “and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.”
“Nothing in creation is so like God as silence,” agreed Meister Eckhart.
I used to camp on occasion in the Sand Lakes Quiet Area near Traverse City and on North Manitou Island in Lake Michigan. At these and similar locations, I greatly appreciated the freedom from chance encounters with motorized vehicles.
Too much random racket supercharges my nerves, and leaves me drained and irritable.
Back in the 1990s, when I was attending the Colorado Outward Bound School near Leadville with a group of Kellogg National Fellows, the nighttime snoring ritual in the men’s bunkhouse sounded a bit like time trials at a local drag strip. It eventually drove me from the building, and forced me to move my bedroll outside and spread it out under the stars in a stand of tall pines.
I wasn’t being anti-social—just searching for quiet meditation and peaceful sleep.
One of the final exercises in the week-long Outward Bound experience involved several hours of solo time in a mountain forest. We were told to sit silently, observe nature and write letters to ourselves that would be opened a year after we returned home.
“Be still and know that I am God,” the holy scriptures say. That’s good advice, but tough to do in today’s world.
It has been said that the northern Arctic region expresses the sum of all wisdom—silence.
But I wonder about that, since modernity has invaded all areas.
A few years ago, when I visited the rural villages of Kotzebue and Noorvik in northwest Alaska—several hundred air miles from the urban center of Anchorage—my senses were assaulted by numerous all-terrain vehicles roaring through the streets and across the landscape.
It seems that wherever man goes, he carries the din of human activity with him.
“We need to find God,” Mother Teresa said, “and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature—trees, flowers, grass—grows in silence. See the stars, the moon and the sun—how they move in silence. We need silence to be able to touch souls.”
Alaskan adventures of a wannabe bush pilot
By Mike VanBuren
From the Late August 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
If it wasn’t for my natural trepidation over speed, height and the general unreliability of machines, I might have been a bush pilot.
At least I’ve thought about it on various occasions. During my late teens and early 20s, I even considered a role in the U.S. Air Force as a possible place to begin such a career.
But, rather than sitting at the controls of assorted high-tech aircraft, I wound up staring into various computer screens, crafting news and feature stories about the adventures of others.
My early inspiration for this unfulfilled dream came from reading about the exploits of that rare breed of individuals who pioneered the use of airplanes to carry people and goods to places that were previously accessible only by horseback, ox cart, dog sled, or canoe.
According to a Time-Life book about the subject, these daring pilots not only flew over the ice-cloaked mountains and endless tundra of Alaska, but also penetrated the forbidding barrens of northern Canada, the scorched outback of Australia, the humid jungles of New Guinea, the razor-backed ridges of Mexico’s Sierra Madre and the tangled rain forests of the Amazon.
Traveling in minutes or hours over territory so rugged that it took days or weeks to traverse on the ground, they connected countless remote settlements and lone individuals with the outside world, bringing in medicines, mail, essential commodities and emergency aid—and yanking isolated areas into the 20th Century.
I’ve been fortunate over the years to have had many Forrest Gump-style experiences—simply by being in the right places at the right times. That’s how I came to acquire my own pseudo bush flying adventures in Alaska.
The first such escapade was in 1989, when a high school friend—Dave Bogart—and I rented a small Cessna Skyhawk and took it on a short flight over a wilderness area west of Anchorage, where he was living at the time. An occasional bush pilot who has since purchased his own plane, Dave was then working for the fabled Flying Tigers. He now captains Federal Express flights around the globe. Once airborne, Dave let me take over the controls for a few minutes as we soared above the landscape. Ten years later, he would take me and my family on other flights over glaciers near Wasilla and Palmer.
A day or so after that inaugural trip over the Alaskan bush, I boarded a small float plane on a lake north of Seward and flew to the village of Chenega Bay in Prince William Sound. I was ostensibly there on Kellogg Foundation business, but briefly felt as though I was living the life of a bush pilot.
Back in Anchorage, a foundation colleague and I next boarded a commercial jet for Dutch Harbor, about 800 miles out in the Aleutian Island chain. Landing there was one of the trickiest maneuvers I have ever seen.
The plane descended over the windswept and fog-shrouded Bering Sea and flew between two rugged mountains, making a hard right turn onto the short runway and braking with a force that pressed passengers hard against their seat belts. There were several commercial fishermen on board, who spontaneously erupted into loud cheers and applause when the jet rolled to a stop.
After a night at the crowded Unisea Inn, my colleague and I climbed into another small craft bound for the village of Nikolski, an island or so away. We passed over a herd of reindeer at historic Fort Glenn, wandered in the clouds for a spell and set down on a gravel airstrip on Umnak Island.
“You were flying with God up there,” one of the villagers remarked as we climbed out of the airplane. So we were.
We were especially lucky that day—able to complete our business, and fly back to Dutch Harbor and Anchorage on schedule. Sometimes the uncertain Aleutian weather keeps planes grounded for a couple of weeks.
Nineteen years later, I was back in Alaska on business—taking an Alaskan Airlines flight from Anchorage to Kotzebue in the Arctic Circle, via a quick stopover in Nome. I was traveling that time with a video crew and flew from Kotzebue to the village of Noorvik to do some interviews at a small health clinic and nearby native fish camp.
Yet another adventure for a wannabe bush pilot.
If I had unlimited courage—along with sufficient aeronautical knowledge and skills—I could probably still “slip the surly bonds of earth” and become one for real.
But at this late stage of my life, I’ll probably just keep dreaming about such airborne adventures—and writing about individuals with the grit and determination to actually make them happen.
From the Late August 2014 edition of The North Woods Call
If it wasn’t for my natural trepidation over speed, height and the general unreliability of machines, I might have been a bush pilot.
At least I’ve thought about it on various occasions. During my late teens and early 20s, I even considered a role in the U.S. Air Force as a possible place to begin such a career.
But, rather than sitting at the controls of assorted high-tech aircraft, I wound up staring into various computer screens, crafting news and feature stories about the adventures of others.
My early inspiration for this unfulfilled dream came from reading about the exploits of that rare breed of individuals who pioneered the use of airplanes to carry people and goods to places that were previously accessible only by horseback, ox cart, dog sled, or canoe.
According to a Time-Life book about the subject, these daring pilots not only flew over the ice-cloaked mountains and endless tundra of Alaska, but also penetrated the forbidding barrens of northern Canada, the scorched outback of Australia, the humid jungles of New Guinea, the razor-backed ridges of Mexico’s Sierra Madre and the tangled rain forests of the Amazon.
Traveling in minutes or hours over territory so rugged that it took days or weeks to traverse on the ground, they connected countless remote settlements and lone individuals with the outside world, bringing in medicines, mail, essential commodities and emergency aid—and yanking isolated areas into the 20th Century.
I’ve been fortunate over the years to have had many Forrest Gump-style experiences—simply by being in the right places at the right times. That’s how I came to acquire my own pseudo bush flying adventures in Alaska.
The first such escapade was in 1989, when a high school friend—Dave Bogart—and I rented a small Cessna Skyhawk and took it on a short flight over a wilderness area west of Anchorage, where he was living at the time. An occasional bush pilot who has since purchased his own plane, Dave was then working for the fabled Flying Tigers. He now captains Federal Express flights around the globe. Once airborne, Dave let me take over the controls for a few minutes as we soared above the landscape. Ten years later, he would take me and my family on other flights over glaciers near Wasilla and Palmer.
A day or so after that inaugural trip over the Alaskan bush, I boarded a small float plane on a lake north of Seward and flew to the village of Chenega Bay in Prince William Sound. I was ostensibly there on Kellogg Foundation business, but briefly felt as though I was living the life of a bush pilot.
Back in Anchorage, a foundation colleague and I next boarded a commercial jet for Dutch Harbor, about 800 miles out in the Aleutian Island chain. Landing there was one of the trickiest maneuvers I have ever seen.
The plane descended over the windswept and fog-shrouded Bering Sea and flew between two rugged mountains, making a hard right turn onto the short runway and braking with a force that pressed passengers hard against their seat belts. There were several commercial fishermen on board, who spontaneously erupted into loud cheers and applause when the jet rolled to a stop.
After a night at the crowded Unisea Inn, my colleague and I climbed into another small craft bound for the village of Nikolski, an island or so away. We passed over a herd of reindeer at historic Fort Glenn, wandered in the clouds for a spell and set down on a gravel airstrip on Umnak Island.
“You were flying with God up there,” one of the villagers remarked as we climbed out of the airplane. So we were.
We were especially lucky that day—able to complete our business, and fly back to Dutch Harbor and Anchorage on schedule. Sometimes the uncertain Aleutian weather keeps planes grounded for a couple of weeks.
Nineteen years later, I was back in Alaska on business—taking an Alaskan Airlines flight from Anchorage to Kotzebue in the Arctic Circle, via a quick stopover in Nome. I was traveling that time with a video crew and flew from Kotzebue to the village of Noorvik to do some interviews at a small health clinic and nearby native fish camp.
Yet another adventure for a wannabe bush pilot.
If I had unlimited courage—along with sufficient aeronautical knowledge and skills—I could probably still “slip the surly bonds of earth” and become one for real.
But at this late stage of my life, I’ll probably just keep dreaming about such airborne adventures—and writing about individuals with the grit and determination to actually make them happen.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
North Woods Call radio feature
Here's a link to the WMUK radio report that aired August 7, 2014:
http://wmuk.org/post/wsw-covering-environment-and-conservation
http://wmuk.org/post/wsw-covering-environment-and-conservation
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Speaking out for conservation
An editorial from the Early August 2014 North Woods Call
When we first began publishing the revived North Woods Call two years ago, we imagined a time when the newspaper could be returned to the forests, lakes and rivers of northern Michigan.
After all, that’s largely what it’s about and where it belongs.
Yet, life events and family obligations have kept us from doing that and it doesn’t appear likely that we’ll be able to facilitate such a move anytime in the near future.
Unfortunately, we don’t know anyone else who is qualified, interested and willing to take over the operation. If we did, we might be open to some deal-making.
Publishing in the southern Lower Peninsula is OK, although it keeps our direct connection with the north woods inconsistent, at best. But with the help of those readers who provide news tips and contribute content to The Call—not to mention our numerous loyal subscribers—we have thus far been able to continue the legacy begun in 1953 by Marguerite Gahagan, and continued for many years by Glen and Mary Lou Sheppard.
We believe that Michigan conservation needs this publication, which is why we’ve been trying to keep it alive despite some personal setbacks during recent months.
In the end, though, it’s not about us. We’re merely a voice for others and a repository for divergent viewpoints that are sometimes overshadowed by more powerful voices in the civic arena.
It’s really the hunters, fishers, explorers, hikers, local conservationists, and numerous others who care deeply about the environment that are doing the heavy lifting out in the field.
The Michigan Department of Natural Resources (DNR) has its role, to be sure, but the agency doesn’t always seem as effective as it once was. The DNR’s legendary field staff—arguably the heart and soul of many state-sponsored conservation efforts—are today so hampered by bureaucratic pressures and special-interest politics that they’ve been forced to keep their heads low to avoid the crossfire.
That’s why good journalism and active citizen participation are vital. We must keep errant public servants, businesses, industries and even the nonprofit sector in line if we are going to preserve both our endangered representative republic and rich natural heritage.
This has been our goal. We trust it is one you share.
When we first began publishing the revived North Woods Call two years ago, we imagined a time when the newspaper could be returned to the forests, lakes and rivers of northern Michigan.
After all, that’s largely what it’s about and where it belongs.
Yet, life events and family obligations have kept us from doing that and it doesn’t appear likely that we’ll be able to facilitate such a move anytime in the near future.
Unfortunately, we don’t know anyone else who is qualified, interested and willing to take over the operation. If we did, we might be open to some deal-making.
Publishing in the southern Lower Peninsula is OK, although it keeps our direct connection with the north woods inconsistent, at best. But with the help of those readers who provide news tips and contribute content to The Call—not to mention our numerous loyal subscribers—we have thus far been able to continue the legacy begun in 1953 by Marguerite Gahagan, and continued for many years by Glen and Mary Lou Sheppard.
We believe that Michigan conservation needs this publication, which is why we’ve been trying to keep it alive despite some personal setbacks during recent months.
In the end, though, it’s not about us. We’re merely a voice for others and a repository for divergent viewpoints that are sometimes overshadowed by more powerful voices in the civic arena.
It’s really the hunters, fishers, explorers, hikers, local conservationists, and numerous others who care deeply about the environment that are doing the heavy lifting out in the field.
The Michigan Department of Natural Resources (DNR) has its role, to be sure, but the agency doesn’t always seem as effective as it once was. The DNR’s legendary field staff—arguably the heart and soul of many state-sponsored conservation efforts—are today so hampered by bureaucratic pressures and special-interest politics that they’ve been forced to keep their heads low to avoid the crossfire.
That’s why good journalism and active citizen participation are vital. We must keep errant public servants, businesses, industries and even the nonprofit sector in line if we are going to preserve both our endangered representative republic and rich natural heritage.
This has been our goal. We trust it is one you share.
All aboard: Railroads & the Environment
By Mike VanBuren
From the Early August 2014 North Woods Call
Many years ago, when I lived and worked in the Antrim County community of Mancelona, I often walked at night in an effort to relax my mind and think.
Many times, I trekked along the Michigan Northern Railroad line, stepping from tie-to-tie, scuffing along in the cinders, or balancing on one of the heavy steel rails. It was good therapy that reminded me of my childhood explorations of the old Chicago, Kalamazoo & Saginaw tracks near our home.
I sometimes imagined following the rails across America, through the rural countrysides and urban areas, and actually thought that one day I would take such an extended hike. But, as it often does, life and work got in the way and this remains one of the unfulfilled dreams on my “bucket list.”
My fascination with railroads comes naturally, of course, because both my father and grandfather were railroad men—the former a locomotive engineer and the latter a hostler. I was a railroader myself—a locomotive fireman—for several months after I graduated from high school, until I became weary with the regular layoffs, and was pulled away by college and other pursuits.
I have long thought about railroads from a conservation perspective, as an environmentally friendly way to move freight and passengers. One of my college professors once claimed that rails were better than blacktop, because a set of tracks take up much less space per mile than the typical interstate highway favored by modern trucks and automobiles.
That sounded reasonable to a 20-year-old bachelor of science student at a state-funded university, but some transportation experts say trains present their own set of problems.
Not surprisingly, the American Railroad Association (ARA) says there are plenty of ecological benefits to railroads, which the organization says have a unique ability to reduce highway gridlock, lower fuel consumption, reduce greenhouse gas emissions and cut pollution.
In 2013, for example, railroads reportedly moved a ton of freight 473 miles on a single gallon of fuel. According to an independent study by the Federal Railroad Administration, railroads are on average four times more fuel efficient than trucks.
If just 10 percent of long-distance freight that currently moves by highway switched to rail, the ARA says, national fuel savings would approach one billion gallons per year and annual greenhouse gas emissions would fall by more than 10 million tons.
The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, meanwhile, says that freight moved by rail instead of highway is estimated to reduce emissions by two-thirds.
Furthermore, a single freight train can carry the load of several hundred trucks, freeing up space on the nation’s overcrowded highways and reducing pressures to build and maintain costly roads.
According to the Federal Railroad Administration, passenger trains can efficiently move large numbers of people in comfort and safety—and at higher speeds—than are possible with other ground transportation options. More energy savings and reduced air pollutant emissions may be possible through development of high-speed rail systems, the agency says.
Critics insist that the biggest environmental threat produced by trains is the amount of carbon dioxide they emit, although the “carbon footprint” left by a train, compared to an automobile, depends on how many passengers are using it. A train full of passengers leaves a significantly smaller carbon footprint per capita than a car with just one person.
It is also said that, though trains are more fuel efficient than cars, they still consume a tremendous amount of non-renewable fuel each year. They can disrupt local ecosystems by interrupting migration patterns, destroying habitat and even killing animals attempting to cross the tracks. And railroads are often built with little or no consideration of the local flora and fauna, the critics say.
Then there is noise pollution, which often reaches dangerously high decibel levels that can irritate and stress both humans and animals.
There sometimes seems to be no perfect solution to our environmental problems short of exterminating the human race and giving the planet back to the apes. But more intentional use of railroads could probably help a lot.
My father has often lamented the steady demise of railroads, which were at their historical peak when he was growing up. I feel the same way and would much prefer to travel by rail than by plane—if trains could just get me where I’m going on time.
But maybe that’s the real problem with our society. We’re in far too much of a hurry.
From the Early August 2014 North Woods Call
Many years ago, when I lived and worked in the Antrim County community of Mancelona, I often walked at night in an effort to relax my mind and think.
Many times, I trekked along the Michigan Northern Railroad line, stepping from tie-to-tie, scuffing along in the cinders, or balancing on one of the heavy steel rails. It was good therapy that reminded me of my childhood explorations of the old Chicago, Kalamazoo & Saginaw tracks near our home.
I sometimes imagined following the rails across America, through the rural countrysides and urban areas, and actually thought that one day I would take such an extended hike. But, as it often does, life and work got in the way and this remains one of the unfulfilled dreams on my “bucket list.”
My fascination with railroads comes naturally, of course, because both my father and grandfather were railroad men—the former a locomotive engineer and the latter a hostler. I was a railroader myself—a locomotive fireman—for several months after I graduated from high school, until I became weary with the regular layoffs, and was pulled away by college and other pursuits.
I have long thought about railroads from a conservation perspective, as an environmentally friendly way to move freight and passengers. One of my college professors once claimed that rails were better than blacktop, because a set of tracks take up much less space per mile than the typical interstate highway favored by modern trucks and automobiles.
That sounded reasonable to a 20-year-old bachelor of science student at a state-funded university, but some transportation experts say trains present their own set of problems.
Not surprisingly, the American Railroad Association (ARA) says there are plenty of ecological benefits to railroads, which the organization says have a unique ability to reduce highway gridlock, lower fuel consumption, reduce greenhouse gas emissions and cut pollution.
In 2013, for example, railroads reportedly moved a ton of freight 473 miles on a single gallon of fuel. According to an independent study by the Federal Railroad Administration, railroads are on average four times more fuel efficient than trucks.
If just 10 percent of long-distance freight that currently moves by highway switched to rail, the ARA says, national fuel savings would approach one billion gallons per year and annual greenhouse gas emissions would fall by more than 10 million tons.
The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, meanwhile, says that freight moved by rail instead of highway is estimated to reduce emissions by two-thirds.
Furthermore, a single freight train can carry the load of several hundred trucks, freeing up space on the nation’s overcrowded highways and reducing pressures to build and maintain costly roads.
According to the Federal Railroad Administration, passenger trains can efficiently move large numbers of people in comfort and safety—and at higher speeds—than are possible with other ground transportation options. More energy savings and reduced air pollutant emissions may be possible through development of high-speed rail systems, the agency says.
Critics insist that the biggest environmental threat produced by trains is the amount of carbon dioxide they emit, although the “carbon footprint” left by a train, compared to an automobile, depends on how many passengers are using it. A train full of passengers leaves a significantly smaller carbon footprint per capita than a car with just one person.
It is also said that, though trains are more fuel efficient than cars, they still consume a tremendous amount of non-renewable fuel each year. They can disrupt local ecosystems by interrupting migration patterns, destroying habitat and even killing animals attempting to cross the tracks. And railroads are often built with little or no consideration of the local flora and fauna, the critics say.
Then there is noise pollution, which often reaches dangerously high decibel levels that can irritate and stress both humans and animals.
There sometimes seems to be no perfect solution to our environmental problems short of exterminating the human race and giving the planet back to the apes. But more intentional use of railroads could probably help a lot.
My father has often lamented the steady demise of railroads, which were at their historical peak when he was growing up. I feel the same way and would much prefer to travel by rail than by plane—if trains could just get me where I’m going on time.
But maybe that’s the real problem with our society. We’re in far too much of a hurry.
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